Jack Rudolf, chairman of NBS, dropped to his knees next to the curled up form of Tom Jeeter. His suit was wrinkled, his hair mussed from running his hand through it and his shoes scuffed from treating Studio 60 as his own personal track but no one around the building cared least of all him.

In the quietest voice he could manage, above a whisper, Jack coaxed, "C'mere Tom."

The other man glanced at his face for a fraction of a second before he was shoving himself into Jacks out held arms and pushing his forehead into Jacks oxford their arms naturally wrapped around each other like they had hundreds of times before.

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